The Tekken Storyline
by Angel Unit 2
Summary: Chapter V is up! Please remember to Read and Review. Flames are welcome, though appreciating them is quite another thing.
1. Chapter I

Steve touched his jaw and winced in pain.  
  
"Only girls kick and scratch, you bloody idiot," he muttered.  
  
It was beginning to swell, and the pain in his stomach didn't help either. His opponent, some poor unknown bastard, had been a kick boxer, and had put his skills to good use against him. He had taken the advantage by completely overtaking with kicks, leaving Steve to sway and block most of the time. But the man grew too overconfident of his prowess and began to punch. Steve took the punches without a word, now only waiting for a chance to strike back.  
  
And it came like a dream.  
  
The kick boxer tried to jab Steve, but moved his upper body way too forward. Steve, in one single motion, ducked underneath the man and performed an uppercut, lifting the man into the air.  
  
Steve allowed the body fall, but to his surprise the man slowly stood up. Steve ran towards him, but was stopped short as the man kicked him in the stomach and immediately followed with a powerful kick to Steve's jaw. The force of the kick spun him around, but waking up from the impact, Steve used the created momentum to his advantage and backslapped the kick boxer, and immediately followed with a furious punch in the face, the kick boxer flying out of the ring.  
  
The judge ran towards the kick boxer, and examined him.  
  
He was unconscious.  
  
"Steve Fox wins," announced the judge. The audience erupted into applause and cheers.  
  
Steve took a deep breath and knelt on the mats, catching his breath. He knew that matches like this one would come more frequently, and as one got closer to fighting Heihachi Mishima, they would only get harder. But it was a small prize to pay to be given the privilege of living as a king. And maybe, just once, for just a moment, be able to live in peace. No fear. No need to be looking over his shoulder if anyone was following him. But if he had to go, he would go out big. They wanted to take him? Then let them. But inside the ring, and nowhere else but there.  
  
He stood up and walked out of the arena, the crowd cheering behind him. On the floor, still, lay his opponent.  
  
The kick boxer was young, only 23, but Steve was even younger. At 21, he was Middleweight International Boxing champion. Blond, muscular, good looking, and with the uncaring smile that youth brings along, Steve had everything any person could have ever desired. And he was proud of it. After all, what man, his age, could claim to have risen to the top of his world, by himself and no one else's help or care. Everything he had, he had earned himself, and was enjoying it by himself. His career didn't leave time for anything else. Specially now. Attaching himself to someone would mean endangering that person, and, besides, he had, for now, bigger goals than love.  
  
And the Mishima Corporation would help him get there.  
  
========  
  
He sat down, heavily, resting his head against the wall. One thing he had to give to Heihachi is that he truly honored the best competitors. The main Mishima building had offices, laboratories, arenas, and, reserved for executives, diplomats and fighters, apartments furnished with the latest fashions and gadgets. And every room was fitted with a gym.  
  
"It is heaven," thought Steve.  
  
He closed his eyes as sleep slowly took over him, drowning, for now, the pain. He began to dream about the foster homes, the indifference, the bullies and the fights. But he could never dream about a family. How could he dream of one, if he had never known a real, or his real family? Before the foster homes, he remembered nothing. And that haunted him. Even more than the prize on his head. Even more in his dreams.  
  
He woke up with a start. Someone was knocking at the door.  
  
"Who is it?" Steve asked.  
  
"Room Service," replied a man in oriental accented English.  
  
Steve stood and groaned. Sleep had numbed his body, and he hadn't felt it. But as he moved, it came back at full strength, forcing Steve to take a breath at every step.  
  
The door was knocked on again.  
  
"I said I was coming," screamed Steve.  
  
He opened the door, slightly, and peered at the man standing outside. It was an old man, very old, maybe going towards his 80's, wearing green pants and jacket. He also had a matching green beanie on.  
  
"What is it?" Steve asked.  
  
The old man stood for a couple of seconds, trying to say something, but it seemed he couldn't find the words to express himself. Finally, he took from a pocket a vial with some green balm.  
  
"What the hell is that? Whatever it is, old man, I don't want it, especially if it's illegal. I'm in enough trouble as it is"  
  
The old man opened his eyes wide.  
  
"No, no, no!" shouted the old man, waving his hands. "Good. Hmm. Body good"  
  
The old man started to rub his own shoulder in a circular manner, and sighed to show he was relaxing.  
  
"Good," the old man repeated.  
  
"You mean good like medicine? Like massage?"  
  
The old man's face lit up.  
  
"Yes. Medicine. Body good."  
  
Steve opened the door, and let the old man in.  
  
"You with Mishima Corp?"  
  
"Mishima. Heihachi Mishima," nodded the old man. "Heihachi. Medicine. Body good."  
  
The old man removed Steve's shirt, and pointed to the bed. He spread his arms, sighed, and again pointed to the bed.  
  
"You want me to sleep?"  
  
"No." Again the old man spread his arms and sighed, smiling.  
  
Finally Steve understood.  
  
"Oh, you want me to relax. In the bed."  
  
"Yes," said the old man nodded and smiled.  
  
Steve laid down on the bed, face down. The old man took some of the green balm on his hand, and started to rub it all over Steve's back and shoulders. He put a lot of pressure, so Steve's body started to warm up. He then started to apply pressure in Steve's legs, relaxing them. He then moved to Steve's arms and hands. The old man noticed the swelling on Steve's Jaw. He got some more of then balm and softly applied it. Steve just closed his eyes and relaxed, trying not to fall asleep, but he felt the old man's hand leave his body. He looked towards the old man who was wiping his hands.  
  
"Done, old man?" Steve asked.  
  
"Yes."  
  
Steve got up and removed his wallet.  
  
"No, no!" Said the old man.  
  
"You don't want a tip?"  
  
The old man put up his hands and imitated Steve's fighting stance. He punched air several times. He then pointed to Steve.  
  
"Good."  
  
"Thank you, I guess." Steve smiled.  
  
The old man smiled, bowed, and walked towards the door. Steve followed behind.  
  
"Body good?" The old man asked, as he stepped out into the hallway.  
  
"Yeah, it's feeling a lot better."  
  
The old man smiled, turned around, put his hands behind his back and walked towards the elevator.  
  
Steve closed the door.  
  
==========  
  
"Operator."  
  
"What time is the next match at?"  
  
"It starts in 20 minutes, sir."  
  
"Who's in it?"  
  
"Hold on a second, please. Andres Arcila will be fighting Combot."  
  
"Andres Arcila. Who's Combot?"  
  
"Combot is a humanoid robot entered by Violet, another contestant."  
  
"A robot? Can't wait to see that. Thank you, baby."  
  
The operator laughed.  
  
"You're welcome, Mr. Fox."  
  
=========  
  
The arena was one of three, all with different themes. This one had a sumo wrestling ambient to it. And like the original, it was decorated with lanterns and patterns of traditional Japanese art. The ring itself was small, but large enough to give running ground to the competitors. Seats were in levels, six in total, and they surrounded the ring, with only a space been the entrance, for both the audience and the fighters. The only strange thing about the arena is that there were 4 computers surrounding it. For what reason, no one still knew.  
  
Steve took a seat in the front row. First row was reserved for fighters, first, so they could study their competitor's techniques, second, because it was the most uncomfortable seating in the arena. Steve cursed at the person who had thought of such a stupid design. Second row was designed for the executive class, because of its big, plush stadium seats with foot and arms rests. It was also reserved for the elite and especial guests of Heihachi Mishima. This surprised Steve, because the old man was seating there looking attentively at the ring.  
  
There were only a few fighters in the first row, along with him. To his left, a few seat away sat a girl, young, about 20, tanned with long brown hair. She was wearing a sea green jacket, along with extremely tight shorts. People around her seemed to have lost interest in the upcoming fight, and were concentrated on her. She smiled sensually, but in her eyes there was still the stare of a child.  
  
A man with long blond hair came walking towards the girl. He was staring hungrily at her. They started talking, the girl smiling. The man performed a couple of fancy moves, flexing his muscles underneath his black shirt and blue jeans. Finally, the man winked at her and sat back a few feet away on the arena floor. As he was leaving, the girl took her index finger and thumb and pressed them against her forehead.  
  
"Loser," Steve saw the girl mouth.  
  
Steve turned to another fighter, sitting in the last seat, next to the entrance. He was well built, his silver hair matching his white skin.  
  
"Must be military or security," thought Steve by the man's wear.  
  
He was wearing a black shirt with white and black camouflage pants. But what impressed Steve the most was the man's stare. It was cold and lacking of emotion, and yet, full of rage and hate.  
  
"Andres Arcila!" The judge announced.  
  
Steve turned to the person entering the arena. It was a young man, dark hair with a small built. Steve had heard of him. He was a Karate master, and had already advanced this far, not because of his strength and technique, but because of agility and stamina. Wearing people out was his strategy, but would it work against.  
  
"Combot!"  
  
Everyone turned to watch as a man wearing only purple entered and nodded to the audience. His whole outfit was in that peculiar color. Even his hair had been dyed in that color. He turned to the entrance and motioned to bring something out. Everyone stared in silence as 4 men ran to the computers, turned them on, and started typing. Then, from the entranced, emerged a machine. But it was a biped, and it walked out by itself, no help given at all by anyone. It's sensible and delicate circuits were covered by some kind of plastic-like shelling, but most of its extremities were bare, just simple, but apparently strong, hydraulics.  
  
"A robot," Steve thought.  
  
Just then Steve started to question his surroundings. A robot had been admitted into the tournament. Were there others like it? What about Violet? The man that had brought it in. Where was he from? Who were the other competitors? The girl? The blond guy? That man, who seem to be more dead than alive? The old man? And why does Heihachi risk his empire so? Because of a simple game? Was that it? Just a game? Or was there more in the tournament, than anyone else chose to say? Why?  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Fight!"  
  
=========  
  
=========  
  
Reviews, you can put them in the Review Section, or if you have comments and questions e-mail me at  
  
intermexdt@yahoo.com  
  
Thanks! Tuqui-Tuqui 


	2. Chapter II

1976  
  
=======  
  
She looked down on the men entering.  
  
=======  
  
The archaeologist turned on his flashlight and pointed inside the ruins. Everything was still the same.  
  
"They should still be here," he said.  
  
He walked inside one of the small clay rooms, knelt, and lifted an old rug. Dust and dirt spread across the room. The curator and the three guards covered their faces as they started coughing violently, not being able to stand that much dust. The archaeologist simply scratched his nose, and looked down into the burrowed ground. Inside there were three clay pots, each of their openings covered delicately by woven cloth.  
  
He took each one of them, and removed them delicately, as if the smallest wisp of wind could shatter them. The curator entered slowly and softly, knowing too well the value of what lay inside those pots.  
  
"Can you uncover them?" The curator asked.  
  
"Yeah," He answered.  
  
He took the first pot, and delicately uncovered it. He pointed his flashlight inside to see if there were any vermin hiding in there. Seeing none, he put his hand inside and felt softly around. Cloth caressed his hand and he grabbed it. As he picked it up, he also felt, beneath the cloth, a solid object. He also picked it up and slowly removed it from the pot.  
  
The curator got closer, and pointed his flashlight not to the covered object, as to not ruin it, but close to it, as to give it enough light to see.  
  
The archaeologist laid down the cloth on the ground, with the object inside, and opened it. It was a silver snake with traces of gold along its side. Its back covered with emeralds, and its eyes red rubies. Its body perfectly shaped into an "S", almost giving it life.  
  
"It's beautiful," said the curator. His eyes truly admiring such artwork.  
  
"Hold on," interrupted the archaeologist. "There are the other two pieces that go along with this one."  
  
They focused their attention on the second pot, and performed the same painstaking ritual of removing the covered object. But this time it revealed a silver buffalo. Its eyes were emeralds, and its hooves gold. Its horns were beautifully carved rubies.  
  
The curator held his breath as the archaeologist placed the buffalo a few inches to the right of the snake.  
  
"One more," said the archaeologist.  
  
The curator simply nodded as the other turned to the third and final pot. He uncovered it, and softly removed the object. By size, it was much smaller than the other two pieces, but it seemed to be covered in more cloth than the others, and it was held fast by strings. The archaeologist took a small Swiss-knife and cut the strings. He spread the cloth on the floor and revealed its content. It was a small emerald, no bigger than a dollar coin, with a ruby, strangely implanted inside.  
  
"So strange," said the curator as the archaeologist placed the gem perfectly between the snake and the buffalo.  
  
"It's supposed to tell a story," he replied. "From what my wife is told me, a long time ago, even before the coming of the white man, and before the introduction of man's best friend, the horse, came from the south, a band of 3 brothers who came in peace.  
  
They said they came from a land where trees were endless, and the waters had no limits. They had come to ask for our grace, our favor. They came with this gem, saying that inside laid the spirit of war, a spirit so evil that it destroyed the strongest and left the weak to be governed by it. And the spirit had ruled for many seasons, without contest, with absolute power and authority. Until the brothers rose in rebellion, and fought valiantly. There were 10 brothers, but in the end of it all, only the three were left. And with help of the priests, they entrapped the spirit within the jewel.  
  
The brothers asked the tribe to keep the jewel hidden amongst them. If they could, to please ask for help from the spirits, that this evil do not raise again, because if it rose once more, than it would not be good that would conquer it. And it would not be evil that would defeat it. But the fruit from the fornication of the spirit of good and the spirit of evil. And it was the offspring's decision whether to rule in goodness, or in evil.  
  
That's why they created the snake and buffalo. The snake representing evil, and the buffalo goodness."  
  
"Beautiful story your wife's people have," said the curator.  
  
The archaeologist took the pieces, one by one, and covered them back with their respective pieces of clothing. He took from his bag large pieces of cotton and white gauze and surrounded the pieces with them, then delicately putting them on his bag, making sure that there was plenty of covering separating them.  
  
Both men stood up, the curator walking behind, while the other in front was already walking out the crumbling doorway.  
  
"Don't move," heard the archaeologist.  
  
He stopped and turned to the right. The cold touches of a gun caressing his forehead, making him hold firmly to the bag  
  
"What is this?" He asked to the guard holding the gun. The other two guards were now behind him, also holding firearms.  
  
"I'm sorry Mr. Chang," he heard the curator say. "But I can't let you simply take those antiquities to just any museum."  
  
"According to Mishima's contract, those pieces would be put where they belong. And that's The Native American Museum."  
  
"That's where you're wrong. Mr. Mishima said that they would be put where they belong, but never specified where. Those will be going to his personal collection. And I promise, Mr. Chang, as Mr. Mishima has to me, that they will be appropriately taken care of. Now, kindly, please hand them over to the guard."  
  
Chang stared coldly at the guard pointing the gun at him, and simply said "No."  
  
========  
  
She knew she had to take this opportunity, or she would loose it forever.  
  
========  
  
"Kill him," said the curator.  
  
Chang closed his eyes, waiting. His wife and daughter filling his thoughts.  
  
"I'm sorry I wasn't a better husband and father," he thought. "But I just wish I could hear one more 'I love you' from both of you."  
  
But he heard nothing.  
  
Not the words he waited.  
  
Not the sound of a gun.  
  
Just a moan.  
  
He opened his eyes.  
  
In the floor, sat the guard hiding his arm underneath the other, moaning senselessly. Chang felt something close to his feet, and stepped back in terror as he noticed it was the guard's forearm. He started walking away from it, until he heard the shooting begin.  
  
The other two guards began shooting at air, screaming at each other. One of them began running towards the ruined doorway, but stopped suddenly and fell to the floor, blood spewing like a fountain from a gash running across his spinal cord.  
  
Chang began running in the other side, the bag still with him, when he tripped, hitting the floor with his face. Blood began to drip from his nose, making him loose his balance as he tried to get up. He tried again, but in front of him was standing someone wearing a purple jumpsuit. He looked up, and saw the stranger wearing the mask of a demon. Chang gasped, and began crawling backwards.  
  
He turned around when he heard the remaining guard shout and shoot at the masked person. He rolled out of the way, trying not to get hit by bullets. Suddenly, both the shouting and shooting stopped. He turned towards the guard, but only saw his body, a pool of blood already forming.  
  
He got up quickly and started to run, but was immediately thrown back to the floor. He opened his eyes, and standing in front was the masked demon. It pointed to the bag. Chang instinctively put his hand across it as he got up.  
  
"You can't take these," he said.  
  
The masked demon advanced towards him, but it was stopped short as it met a kick in the face from Chang.  
  
He got into a fighting stance. The masked demon acknowledged the challenge and also took its fighting stance, a dagger shining from its hand. Both stood for a couple of seconds taking breath, until Chang performed a low leg sweep, the masked demon jumping out of the way. Chang immediately got back up, but saw no one. The masked demon had disappeared.  
  
He was about to turn around when he felt a hand lift his chin, and pressured applied to his throat.  
  
He knew what it meant.  
  
"Dawn. Michelle," he whispered.  
  
He closed his eyes, and felt nothing. No more.  
  
=====  
  
She laid down the body slowly, put her palms together and bowed to the man.  
  
Very few times had a man actually hit her, and she needed to acknowledge it. Perhaps she was getting soft.  
  
She took the bag, looked inside and felt the items. They had not broken. For now, she would have to hide them, until she found an appropriate buyer for such rarities.  
  
She put her dagger in her belt, held the bag close to her, and began running across the hot Arizona desert.  
  
=====  
  
The curator waited another half an hour before daring to go outside.  
  
He couldn't believe what he had just seen. One person, and only one person, had just killed Chang, and three armed guards. And it also had the power to disappear.  
  
But those were not the end of his worries. What would he report to Mishima? That some supernatural being had killed three armed guards, the archaeologist, and stolen the artifacts? Or simply that he had not acquired them as he had been ordered?  
  
These thoughts filled his mind as he got in the jeep.  
  
"Should I even report this?" He thought, as he quickly drove, too, across the hot Arizona desert.  
  
===== 


	3. Chapter III

It was small and lonely, but still held that familiar warmth so precious to her. Only a candle lit up the entire cabin, its rays casting shadows over the one single room. Like ghosts trying to convey a message, the shadows danced across the bare wood wall, always changing, always speaking without a single sound. And like a ghost, she walked through it all, concentrating not to make the old wood sound. Her eyes set on the old man peacefully sleeping in the only furniture in the cabin. The bed. The bed where he has seen his five children be born. The bed where he has seen them grow up. The bed where he has seen his wife take her last breath. And in it, he probably wished he would pass away. But not her. She will not let his wish come true.  
  
"Why can't a daughter be good to his aging father, and simply walk in here knowing this is her home?"  
  
She stopped and relaxed her stance.  
  
"Do you wish me to pass away soon with all your sneaking around?"  
  
"No, father," she said. "I did not mean to wake you, either. I just came to leave something for pick up later."  
  
The old man sat up in his bed. His face showing age to its full extent. His fatherly smile showing his role in the home, but held back enough to show a secret was hidden between father and daughter. He opened his arms, and welcomed his daughter into them as he kissed her cheek.  
  
"Father, I want to leave these here. Later, I will sell them, and I will have more than enough money to buy you a good home."  
  
He laughed at her youthful ideas.  
  
"Daughter, why do you always have these dreams of moving me from here? This is my home, and I am content. If you wish to please me, give the items you carry to the clan. Someone else deserves them more than I do."  
  
"The clan deserves nothing!" Her voice filling with spite. "We risk our lives, and yet he does not remember the services that your have rendered him. Fifty years! Fifty years, father! How does he repay you? By lodging you, your entire life and family, within these four walls. Never giving you a chance to escape."  
  
"Daughter," said the old man, his soothing voice trying to reach inside her. "I do not want to escape. And I did not join the clan, for what it could do for me. But for what I could do for others in worse situations than I. That's the clan's purpose. Nothing else is."  
  
"Even so," she said, breaking away from his embrace and standing by the old door. "I grow tired. I grow tired of the work. I grow tired of the endless needs. I grow tired of him. I grow tired of it all."  
  
"Then simply leave. Breakaway from it all, and live a content life."  
  
"You mean like my sisters? Never! I will not become a maid, living until the next farmer comes along and offers pigs for my dowry. I will not do that, father."  
  
She slammed the door open and fled across the cold night.  
  
[Friend.]  
  
The old man turned to the voice speaking. It was an apparition. A specter wearing silver samurai armor was sitting, cross-legged and meditating on the floor. Its face covered by a white skeletal devil mask. At its belt, hung a glowing katana.  
  
"My lord," said the old man as he bowed his head in respect. "Please forgive my daughter. She is young, and is still to live the hardships of life."  
  
[And she is still to learn from them.] Said the unmoving specter. [Tell me something, friend. Why, after seeing 3 generations of the clan, are the daughters always the ones that bring the largest burden on a father?]  
  
The old man laughed, his toothless grin expressing true joy.  
  
"My lord, I do not know," said the old man wiping a tear from his eyes. "But daughters, I can tell you, are the more numerous in any family. I see, soon, Japan been overrun by women."  
  
The specter did not move at all, but a laugh was heard across the lowly lit room, resounding a while.  
  
[What I need are good men,] said the specter. Its laugh turning into a soft chuckle and slowly dying out. [Even now, the clan is divided between the two sexes. And what I do not wish anymore are outspoken girls. Always challenging my authority with their opinion. How I long for the day where warriors were few, and women, fewer.]  
  
At this, the old man turned away from the specter, shielding his face in shame.  
  
[Why do you hide from me, old friend?] The specter asked.  
  
"Forgive me, my lord, but I am ashamed for not giving you my son as one of your own."  
  
[Nonsense. Your son is a good man, and he has become quite a farmer. Do not disown him because he did not follow in your footsteps.]  
  
"But my lord, all I gave you, in the end, is a daughter. One that brings you problems, and always rebels against you. Even now, I see in her heart the seed of greed. It shall be her downfall."  
  
[Then let her downfall be her own, and do not take part of it, friend. Should her greed begin to take root inside the clan, then I will have no other choice then to destroy them.]  
  
"My lord! Please!" Screamed the old man, throwing himself before the specter. "She might never live to the expectations of the clan, but she is a good daughter. She truly is."  
  
The specter stayed quite. The old man stared at the warrior, seeing how concentrated the being was. A soft glow emitted from it, giving it an eerie aura. Its eyelids were closed together, but inside, the old man saw, the eyes were moving. That meant that where ever the warrior truly was, something was beginning to break its concentration. It was about to leave soon.  
  
[Your daughter will not die, my friend. But a crime must not go unpunished. It is the clan's law that it be so. And when the time comes, Kunimitsu shall pay the full price.]  
  
The old man bowed when the words were spoken.  
  
"Thank you, lord Yoshimitsu."  
  
But when the old man rose, the warrior was gone.  
  
=====  
  
Yoshimitsu opened his eyes and began to listen. Softly and delicate were her footsteps. If she had not defied the clan, he would have been proud of her. But her self-serving arrogance and greed were weaknesses. And in the clan there was no room for weak members.  
  
"What wonders did you see during your travels Kunimitsu?"  
  
She jumped down from a branch, and landed in front of Yoshimitsu. Both were wearing full fight outfits, but their concentrated poses expressed everything else but battle. Yoshimitsu sat at the foot of a tree, his sword resting at his side. Kunimitsu, sat down, bowed, and crossed her arms. Her dagger dangling from her belt, her hair tightly divided into 2 pigtails, running from the back of her gold demon mask to her back. Between them stood a small candle, giving the only light to that secluded part of the forest.  
  
"The American desert is truly a wonder. The heat is immense, but dry enough to not perspire. Water is only needed every few miles to survive."  
  
"And did you encounter anything interesting?" He asked waiting for a change in her voice.  
  
"Nothing at all," she responded calmly. "Who would have thought that a country as rich as America, did not actually conduct business with money or gold, but rather paper. Useless, worthless paper."  
  
"Perhaps they may not have the usual forms of transactions as we have, but those 'useless, worthless papers' as you call them might have been the key to far greater riches than both you and I would have imagined."  
  
"Maybe so, but the clan is not a business society."  
  
"True, but did you at least do what I sent you to do?" He asked. "Did you follow Mishima's men?"  
  
"Yes, but it turned out nothing. The treasures had already been stolen."  
  
It was exactly what Yoshimitsu expected from her. A lie. And it would be her last one.  
  
"But it seems you encountered some impediments. Your mask is dented."  
  
"Just a small encounter with someone unimportant," she said as she lightly touched the damaged mask.  
  
"Perhaps you are getting clumsy Kunimitsu."  
  
"Perhaps you should be careful of what you speak Yoshimitsu."  
  
"Perhaps I should cut off your tongue for speaking to me in such an insolent manner. And even your hands for stealing from the clan!"  
  
Kunimitsu immediately moved her hand to grab her dagger but stopped as she felt a stinging touch on her neck. She turned her eyes to Yoshimitsu who was holding the katana against her.  
  
"You have shown the clan a lack of respect for the last time Kunimitsu," he said "I promised your father I would not kill you, but you will not go unpunished."  
  
She heard some rustling behind her and instantly jumped out of the way. Two throw-knives missed her. She turned and looked towards the source of attack. Three shadows moved among the branches, silently approaching her.  
  
"Leave, Kunimitsu, and never come back." Yoshimitsu said. He did not turn to face her, but just pointed his sword at her. "This shall be my gift to your father. That I give you a chance to escape, before I set Meemitsu, Boamitsu, and Kiao on you."  
  
She knew she was overwhelmed, and without a word she performed a backwards somersault. Before she had even touched the floor, she vanished into thin air.  
  
Yoshimitsu waited a couple of seconds, and slowly lowered his arm. He bent down towards the candle, admired its beauty, took a deep breath, and from his mouth emitted a purplish gas. The candle started to melt instantly, its light fading into darkness. And with it the remaining four ninjas.  
  
=====  
  
The old man sat kneeling on the floor, crying.  
  
"My daughter," he said. "Why have you dishonored me so?"  
  
=====  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Big thanks to Meemitsu. He created www.manji-clan.com Without it, I would've been lost about some characters' information.  
  
That reminds me! There use to be a site www.jun-shrine.com It already closed down, but kudos to Little Pony for such a great site, and one of the motivations to getting me hooked on Tekken. I miss the card game!!! If anyone knows where I can play it, let me know!!!!!!!!!  
  
Tuqui-tuqui 


	4. Chapter IIII

"Why aren't you here yet Dubson?"  
  
"Sir, I am sorry, but we did not acquire the pieces you requested."  
  
"WHAT? What happened?"  
  
"Sir, we had hired Chang to excavate them, but we were attacked, and the pieces taken."  
  
"That's impossible! You took guards. Armed guards, Dubson! What happened to them?"  
  
"They are all dead, sir."  
  
"But Chang is still a witness."  
  
"No, sir, he was also killed."  
  
"And why is it that you're still alive?"  
  
"I. hmmm. I hid while the others were outside fighting. sir."  
  
"You worthless coward! Let's see if you are still useful to me. You are to come back at once and describe, in detail, every one of the people that assaulted you!"  
  
"Sir, I'm sorry, but I don't think I can."  
  
"What did you say?"  
  
"Sir, whoever attacked us, attacked from a distance, and when I saw Chang fighting against him, the attacker was wearing a mask. After he killed Chang, he took the bag and disappeared. He disappeared into thin air. I know it sound crazy, sir, but you have to."  
  
"That's enough. Come back at once. When you arrive, you are to report this to security. Help them get a sketch of the people that attacked you, even if it's only the mask."  
  
"Yes sir."  
  
He hanged up and walked out of his office, two bodyguards following behind.  
  
Close to the elevator stood his two sons. He pointed to one of them.  
  
"Follow me."  
  
As he passed the other, he merely sneered.  
  
"Weak," he said.  
  
He stepped into the elevator, his son next to him and the guards in front facing the door.  
  
The elevator doors closed, the young man standing alone in the hallway. Deep inside him, his emotions boiled. Never would he be able to please his father. Never would he be treated as a son.  
  
He punched the wall and walked away.  
  
Behind him, pieces of the wall began to break away. His fist imprinted in the middle. 


	5. Chapter V

1977  
  
=====  
  
"Thank you," he said.  
  
He took the bowl and inhaled the warmth emitting from it. It was fish broth, and like all the others, it was greasy, green colored, and the fish still had its scales. But he did not care. He was hungry, and the broth and fish were big enough to refuel him, but not heavy enough to make him sleepy. It was the rain forest's natural foods that kept these people alive and healthy, and he was glad he was learning from them. And he was glad that the guaranai had taken to him.  
  
He had reached the guaranai about 2 years ago, by accident. He had left Guatemala City, driving towards Mexico, alone, when a thunderstorm, common on the Guatemalan rain forest, pushed him off track. He kept driving, but unable to find the road, under the heavy rain and lightning, decided to wait in the car.  
  
The wait lasted an entire night.  
  
He woke up the next morning hungry. He got out of the car and examined his surroundings. Around him there was nothing more than wild canopy, perhaps 20 or 30 feet above him. The gentle sounds of the jungle surrounded him, and the fresh smell of fauna and flora enveloped him, causing euphoria of wonderment and fear.  
  
He turned to the car and noticed no damage, but decided not to drive until he got a good sense of his whereabouts and in what direction he would be driving.  
  
He started walking towards the east, when he heard a noise behind him. He turned around and noticed a boy, about 7, staring at him. The child was wearing jeans and an old t-shirt, but his facial features were one of a native Indian.  
  
"Hi," he said, smiled and waved.  
  
The child did not respond, but simply stared at him and the vehicle.  
  
"I'm father Jose Alejando Rey from The Lord Our Savior Missions. Maybe you can tell me how to get back to the main road. I got caught in the rain, and somehow I ended up here."  
  
The child cautiously walked to the car and timidly touched the passenger door, all while watching the priest, waiting if he would be reproached.  
  
"You like the car?" The priest asked.  
  
He walked to the passenger door and opened it. The boy hurriedly scurried away.  
  
"Come on," said the priest smiling, motioning for the kid to get inside. "I'll drive you around, in exchange that you tell me where the road is. Deal?"  
  
Slowly the kid walked towards the car, peeked inside, and incredibly, jumped into the passenger seat. The priest got on, turned the engine, startling the child.  
  
"Calm down," he smiled. "Now, where's the main road?"  
  
The child pointed, and the priest followed the path.  
  
=====  
  
The priest laughed at the memory. Even after 2 years it was still amusing him. The child did not lead him to the road, but actually to the guaranai, a group of people that was yet to be absorbed by modern society. The clothing they wore was actually trades from the people of Chajuf in Chiapas. Meaning he was actually only hours away from reaching the Mexican border.  
  
A few of the guaranai had started farming, but most still held to hunting and gathering. They lived in huts, surrounded mostly by forest, with the exception of the farms. Mayan religious beliefs still strong among them, along with worship of ancient gods like the sun, moon, war, and various animals like the quetzal and jaguar. Supposedly, inside the jungle lived still a Maya priest and a guardian, and access to either one of them was forbidden.  
  
Spanish was not spoken, only ancient dialects, which were probably Mayan. And during the 3 days that the priest stayed with them, he had to communicate through rudimentary sign language. He slept in a hut with the family of the boy he found. And during his stay, he tried learning their way of life was much he could. This was a new order from the church. Unlike his forbearers who forced religion upon their arrival on ancient America, missionaries were now trained to become part of the natives' cultures. Thereby gaining their trust and friendship, making it easier to preach the gospel and spread the word of God, if so they accepted.  
  
After 3 days, he signaled his desire to return to the road and continue onto Mexico. One of the guaranai understood him and led the way. The priest thanked him and promised, as much as he could make it clear, that he would return.  
  
The moment he got back to Mexico, he reported his findings to the church, and requested permission to establish a one-man mission with the guaranai. Given permission, he spent 2 months requesting help and donations. He also hired a local man fluent in Mayan customs and language to aid him during his stay. Ending the third month he set out back to the guaranai, accompanied only by the local man.  
  
He established himself, again, with the boy's family, and immediately began to work with the farmers by instructing them in modern planting techniques. He also introduced medicines badly needed by the sick and dying. He taught them how to trade for better quality products and the modern use of money. He also insisted in better education for the children in both Mayan and Spanish.  
  
"Ask him his name," said the priest to his translator, referring to the boy.  
  
The man spoke back and forth with the boy's father.  
  
"K'abeet Cuch'. It means 'Arrived with need'."  
  
"Why did they give him that name?"  
  
"It isn't their son. They found him. He's an orphan."  
  
Something deep inside the priest hurt immensely. He knew that although the child was accompanied by this family, the boy still felt alone.  
  
It was pain he knew all too well.  
  
For the following two years he dedicated himself to the betterment of the guaranai. Endlessly working until sometimes he would faint and not wake for days at a time. During those trances, the guaranai never touched him nor sought help. To them, faint spells like those meant that the priest's body was being refueled by the gods, and when he woke, he would be enlightened and his spirit refreshed. And when the priest woke, he would immediately begin to work, never thinking about himself, but only about the guaranai.  
  
=====  
  
The guaranai had asked him to sit down that night with them, the boy, who had taken to him, like a son would to a father, sat at his right, the translator at his left. It did not rain, which was fortunate for it would make the fire, outside, light faster, and the ground would be good to sit down on.  
  
One of the elders spoke, standing on a wood platform so he could be seen by everyone.  
  
"We have asked all of you to come tonight," repeated the translator, "to honor a man that has dedicated himself to our people and our beliefs, without, ever, asking for anything in return, except for our wellbeing. To Ah-z'ak (Healing Priest) we present our most precious, yet humble, gift."  
  
The priest was taken aback by such words, and even more so when 4 young men, their faces painted to reflect four different deities, stood around the fire and began to dance. The god of war was represented by a young man, his face painted green and his eyelids a shade of red. Another represented the quetzal by wearing long plumage at his hair and shoulders. The sun god was represented by another young man painted entirely in yellow with 2 orange lines running across his chest. And finally, the god of agriculture was being represented by a young man holding maize in his hands, spreading powder along the floor as he followed the other 3 dancers in a circle around the fire.  
  
The dance lasted about 15 minutes, with more gods added to the dance. It was followed by a banquet. The richest and sweetest of fruits accompanied the traditional "tortilla", along with various meats and delicacies.  
  
During his stay, the priest had never been had the chance to sit down and relax like he did at the moment. To him, perhaps, this was the greatest gift that these people could offer him, one single night of relaxation. And as he closed his eyes and allowed the night's sounds and smells to take him, he heard an unfamiliar voice, very strong and powerful in its tone, with authority echoing around the camp.  
  
"Ah-Meqtan-Pizan!" The voice said.  
  
The priest immediately opened his eyes and stared at the source of such an ominous voice. It came from a largely built man dressed in the ancestral warrior outfit, resembling that of the god of war. On his left forearm he held the circular Mayan shield, engraved with a leaping Jaguar. On his right arm, were the warrior rank bands, and this man proudly wore the highest ranking. Something very few had ever accomplished during the last century. On him, also, was the traditional loin covering and leg shackles. Everything richly covered in gold. But unlike the god, this man did not carry the proud symbol that is the head crown, richly embedded with plumes, but rather, and perhaps his strangest feature, he wore a dark gray jaguar mask, covering his head completely down to the shoulders. So perfectly fitted was the mask that the priest noticed that the mask could change facial expressions, without, yet, loosing its ferociousness.  
  
"Who is that?" The priest asked. "What did he say?"  
  
"That's the priest's guardian," replied the translator. "And he just announced his coming."  
  
In that moment, the guardian stepped aside, and an old man walked towards the fire and stood, proudly, on the platform. He wore the ceremonial headdress representing the sun god. His frail body was covered by a jaguar skin, beautifully held together by threads of gold. In his right, he held a scepter bearing the resemblance of a quetzal, demonstrating the priest's sovereignty. In his left hand, hanged a bundle held together by jaguar skin. He lifted both hands, signaling he was about to speak, and began. Everyone stood in silence.  
  
"What is he saying?"  
  
"He's talking about you, father," said the translator. "He says 'that for long before the coming of the white man that tore down our beautiful cities and before the raping of our mother the earth. The gods, who have yet to forget us, their most proud of children, gave to us guardians that which would uphold the law and beliefs that kept our people together. An example is still alive today, here, in the form of Boteel'"  
  
The priest pointed to the masked warrior, who solemnly stood with his arms crossed, and respectfully bowed his head.  
  
"'Strong and ferocious is he like the jaguar, our protector. And since he was nothing more than a cub, he has taken care of me, like a son would care for his dying father. One day, perhaps, if it is the god's will, he will care for you, as I have for so long.  
  
But during the last seasons I have noticed a man, not one of us, who came and settled in the wilderness with us. Leaving behind the comforts of his people, his family, and perhaps a wife and children. All he left behind in order to heal our sick, nourish our hungry, shelter our homeless, and teach the uneducated. For many seasons I have seen this man grow into one of us, and perhaps, even more than most will in our lifetime. Because not only has he become guaranai, before the eyes of the gods, but also a protector of our most precious believe. The right to live with others, without the worry of change to someone else's false religions and expectations. For he has upheld that believe above his very life. And for that I thank you. Not with mere words, but with that honor those only gods can give to man. And only few men, outside the proud Mayan, accomplish.  
  
"'I ask you,'" said the priest, unraveling the bundle he held. "'Will you wear that which only the few wear? The symbol that makes us who we are. That protects us at night. That protects our children from harm. That protects our men during the hunt, and their travels. That makes us strong when the fight comes to us. Will you, priest, wear the mask of Baalam?'"  
  
Slowly the old priest removed a jaguar mask from the bundle and displayed it holding it above his head. It was golden and light, unlike the guardian's dark mask, and it reflected the fire and its eyes, emitting a beautiful display of light. The priest was dumbfounded. Never, he thought, would he receive such a gift and honor from these people. And if he did not accept, all his work might unravel.  
  
"Thank you," he said.  
  
The Mayan priest held the mask in front of him, and the priest was about to reach for it when he felt something hit his throat. He hit the ground backwards, hitting his head. A ring resounded through his ears, and the pain began. Lights blinded him as he tried to open his eyes, and felt around his arms, pressure, as if someone was trying to pull him. Slowly the lights began to fade and he noticed that the translator and the boy were pulling him away. He heard a roar, and he saw the guardian, Boteel, screaming at the old priest. He could not hear what the guardian was saying for the ringing was still in his ears, but whatever it was, the priest was holding the gold jaguar mask away from Boteel. The guardian roared and turned to the priest. He began walking, his footsteps heavily imprinted on the ground, dust rising with each step. His arms were so tense that veins protruded beneath the skin. He picked up the priest by the collar and held him close to his masked face.  
  
"Ah-z'ak," said the guardian with his hot breath drowning the priest. Its face contorted to the point of showing madness. "Camay!"  
  
He lifted the priest and sat him down on his shoulders facing him. The priest tried holding on, but to no avail. He was too weak. He felt the guardian lift him and sent him plummeting down towards the ground. The priest simply waited the fall. He closed his eyes as he realized that he was slowly falling. He didn't think, just waited. And to him it seemed like a lifetime before his back hit the ground. His ribs, he felt, shattering inside, and his heart stop pumping.  
  
"At least," he thought, "I'll rest."  
  
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Author's note: This chapter took a big chunk of imagination to create, but I finally finished it. In case you didn't understand some words, those are actual Mayan dialect. Here are the translations:  
  
Baalam (Jaguar) Ah-Meqtan-Pizan (Highest Priest) Boteel (Warrior) C'am (Receive) Camay (Die) Nacon: God of war  
  
Big thanks to those who reviewed. Also, I'm still trying to find that King story that starts with King I, then goes on to King II, with him fighting alongside Jin against True Ogre. Anyone now who the author is? Let me know.  
  
Remember kids! Practice safe story writing! Read and Review! Tuqui-tuqui 


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